


Like Fingers Round My Throat

by unsettled



Series: Bloody Your Wrists With Kisses [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Bruises, Handcuffs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-29
Updated: 2010-09-29
Packaged: 2017-10-12 07:37:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"twists the cuff on his wrist even further, leaving red indentations that will turn mottled purple and blue, the deep bloom of lush bruising circling his wrist like too tight fingers"</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Fingers Round My Throat

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for this kinkmeme prompt: _Rather inconveniently, the idea of having my wrists bruised is a huge turn-on._

Sometimes, Lestrade wonders if _this_ is why Holmes choose to … well. Being Holmes, seduce isn't really the proper word. 'Bait him' is more appropriate. But it came around to the same thing in the end, and if Lestrade still gets more than bit breathless when Holmes sets to insulting him with a wide and varied range of words, rolling off that wicked tongue like bloody _poetry_ … Holmes enjoys it enough to not say a thing.

Besides. Holmes is resourceful enough to get his hands on a pair of handcuffs somewhere else. Hell, he could lift them from Lestrade himself. And then grin, just as he is now, and hold out his arms with an expectant, eager look.

Lestrade sighs. Snaps the cuffs around one wrist, and when Holmes would quirk an eyebrow in a silent question, closes the other around his own wrist.

Holmes' eyes widen.

Lestrade turns his hand until he can wrap his fingers around the chain linking them and tugs at Holmes' wrist. Pulls him close and kisses him, nothing sweet or gentle, bringing the blood rushing to leave lips swollen and tender. Holmes makes a tiny sound in his throat and keeps his wrist pulled back, tight against the cuff around it. Lestrade steps back, steps away and turns to the bed, only to be brought up short by the cuffs when Holmes doesn't move. He turns back to him.

"Don't make me drag you, Holmes."

Holmes draws a sharp breath and goes wide eyed, but doesn't move. Lestrade narrows his eyes and steps back to Holmes, steps closer and closer until he's pushing Holmes back, has him pressed against the wall. "Well?" he says, and grasps the chain, pulls it tight and _twists_ it in the same movement so Holmes' wrist is wrenched upward at an stressed angle, splay fingered and tense, trembling.

He leans in, until his lips are a breath from Holmes', and stays there, no closer, as Holmes pants and shivers. "Well?" he asks again.

" _Yes_ ," Holmes hisses. Tilts his head back against the wall sharply, "God, _yes_."

Lestrade can feel a grin tugging at his mouth. "Greedy bastard," he murmurs, affectionately, and Holmes laughs, breathy, a sound that turns into a gasp as Lestrade twists the cuff on his wrist even further, leaving red indentations that will turn mottled purple and blue, the deep bloom of lush bruising circling his wrist like too tight fingers, and Lestrade knows Holmes' eyes will catch on the marks, that his breath will catch as well, that he'll press shaking fingers to the marks and close his eyes at the tenderness and shift, aroused.

He likes thinking of Holmes like that.

He's one hand curled around Holmes' cock, stroking not quite fast enough for Holmes, or hard enough, and Holmes twists between him and the wall, hisses and tries to force Lestrade into more, _more, dammit_. Fails, as Lestrade brings his other hand – the one cuffed to Holmes' – up to Holmes' shoulder, hold him firmly against the wall and drags his arm up. Holmes lets his arm hang limply from the cuff – no, he pulls against it, testing, tugging, and at this rate Lestrade is going to have his own circlet of bruises to hide.

"Give me your wrist," he tells Holmes, who looks at him with glazed eyes for a moment before attempting to present his cuffed wrist, coming up sharply against the end of the chain. Lestrade laughs. "Your _other_ wrist, Holmes."

Holmes obeys, offers up his unmarked wrist. Lestrade presses his lips to it, to the tracery of blue veins under thin skin. Sucks at the knob of bone on the outside, teeth scraping it lightly, sucks until it is red and sensitive, tender; bites, and Holmes jerks, moans. Lestrade settles his teeth into the back of Holmes' wrist, worries it until Holmes is incoherently begging for him to stop, or more, or anything, anything. He works his way around Holmes' wrist, leaving bursts of red that will darken, will turn to unmistakable marks that will stay, blood pooled under the skin, for days, that will still be present when Lestrade next wraps the cuffs around Holmes' wrists, links them around a bed post and lets him fight them, until they are not quite raw enough to bleed, swollen and sensitive enough that Holmes will moan helplessly when Lestrade merely _breathes_ on them.

He keeps him off guard by switching between small, sharp nips and with hard, sucking bites that make Holmes shudder, make him whine and hit his head against the wall, jerk his cuffed hand sharply toward Lestrade, which only adds to his distress. He's close, mindless with need, and Lestrade quite likes the fact that _he's_ been the one to reduce Sherlock Holmes to something very, very human.

He turns his head, leans over to where Holmes has his hand spread out in the air, grasping at nothing, clawing desperately, and licks along the already darkening lines, along the meeting of cuff and wrist, metal pressed into puffy skin, tasting like blood on his tongue. Bites the bruises that are close to bursting under Holmes' skin, and Holmes cries out, arches and comes, shuddering and frantic, gorgeous.


End file.
